“Reeve says that he didn’t wait to ask no questions.  He blew the candle out, and having got the darkness on his side, he made a jump through the door and got onto his hoss.  He says that he wanted to break away to the trees and try to get a shot at the murderer from cover, but the minute he got onto his hoss, he had his hoss shot from under him.”

“Was they any shots fired then?”

“Yep.  Reeve says that he fired a couple of times when he fell.  But the sheriff says that Reeve only fired once, as his hoss was falling, and that the other shot that was found fired out of Reeve’s gun was fired into the heart of Armstrong.  Oh, they ain’t any doubt about it.  All Reeve has got is a cock-and-bull yarn that would make a fool laugh!”

Although Bull had been many times assured by his uncle and his cousins that he was a fool of the first magnitude, he was in no mood for laughter.  Somewhere in the tale there was something wrong, for his mind refused to conjure up the picture of Reeve pulling his gun and shooting across the table into the breast of a helpless, unwarned man.  That would not be the method of a man who could stand up to Uncle Bill.  That would not be the method of the man who had sat up on his bunk and looked so calmly into the face of the sheriff.

Bull stood up and dragged his hat firmly over his eyes.  “I’d kind of like to see the place where that shooting was done,” he declared.

“You got lots of time before night,” said the proprietor.  “Ain’t more’n a mile and a half out the north trail.  Take that path right out there, and you can ride out inside of five minutes.”

There was no horse for Bull Hunter to ride.  But, having thanked his host, he stepped out into the cooler sunshine of the late afternoon.

The trail led through scattering groves of cottonwood most of the way, for it was bottom land, partially flooded in the winter season of rain, and, even in the driest and hottest part of the summer, marshy in places.  He followed the twisting little trail through spots of shadow and stretches of open sky until he reached the shack which was obviously that of the dead Armstrong.

The moment he entered the little cabin he received proof positive.

The furniture had not apparently been disturbed since the shooting.  The table still leaned crazily, as though it had not recovered from a violent shock on one side.  One chair was overturned.  A box had been smashed to splinters, probably by having someone put a foot through it.

Bull examined the deal table.  Across the center of it there was a dark stain, and on the farther side, two hands were printed distinctly into the wood, in the same dull color.  The whole scene rose revoltingly distinct in the mind of Bull.